Little Boy Lost

Cecil nodded. “When those candidates came up into town, they put all them cameras all over the place. The other days, I was in the park. Look up, and sees this little camera on the lamppost. That’s when I realized I gots the proof.”

“But even assuming those cameras were still running when you were there, these requests”—I looked at Emma and then back at Cecil—“the government is notoriously slow in responding to these things. In a month, you’ll probably get a letter that says that they received it, and then who knows how long it’ll take to get it back.” I picked up the FOIA letter and read it through, hoping that this action would satisfy Cecil that I knew what I was talking about. “The truth is,” I said, looking up again, “we don’t have a year to wait. We don’t even have a month. Our trial is next week, and the judge isn’t going to give us a continuance for this. It isn’t going to happen.”

“Well then you get it some other way.” Cecil was agitated now. “You my lawyer. You figure it out. I been doing all the work.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


The next day, I arrived at the office early. A stack of files waited for review. When that was done, there were phone calls to return and meetings with potential clients all over the Saint Louis area.

The coffeemaker popped and gurgled as I raised the shade. The early morning light flooded my office, and my mind felt a lightness that I hadn’t experienced for quite some time, maybe more than a year. The situation with Annie and my brother was done. I had made the decision that Sammy was going to private school—probably on the Judge’s dime for now. I didn’t know where exactly, but she wasn’t going back to the place where she was hurt, and that’s what mattered.

These things offered some clarity and satisfaction, at least before the rest of the world woke up and interfered with my dream.

I stared at the beautiful restored buildings across the street. Even though there was decay behind them, they were enough to give a man a little hope. There was nobody around at that time, and I could almost imagine a bustling business corridor, a Norman Rockwell painting with more soul. Maybe the Northside was ready to be reclaimed one block at a time.

The coffeemaker beeped. Reality returned.

I walked into the main reception area, poured a cup, and went back to my desk to work. When Emma arrived a few hours later, I had reviewed almost every file.

She sat down across from me. “Been busy this morning.” She reviewed my pages of notes. “Impressive.”

I brushed aside the compliment. “Every once in a while.”

We discussed the paying clients first and then finished with a general discussion about the Lost Boys interviews.

“They’re slowing down,” Emma said. “Not as many calls, but it’s hard to predict. You really should talk to the Turners.”

“The Turners?” I couldn’t remember the significance of that one.

“The boy who came in yesterday with his mother,” Emma prompted. “He saw the van.”

“The van.” I nodded, remembering. “Makes sense.”

Emma got up to leave. “Anything else?”

I thought for a moment. Then I wrote a name down on a piece of paper. “Can you look up the contact information for Judge Danny Bryce? Maybe see if you can set up a meeting.”

I handed the sheet of paper to Emma and she took it. “What for?”

“I need to talk to him about Poles,” I said. “My grandpa knows Bryce, says he works in the juvenile courts here, and we can drop his name to get in.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT


The rest of the day was a blur of security screens, metal detectors, and conversations through bulletproof glass. I prioritized the in-custody clients and then had a couple of meetings with people who were out on bail and awaiting their first hearing.

Two of them couldn’t afford my retainer. One needed to ask his parents for the money, but was pretty sure he’d get the cash, and two others signed the retainer agreement and handed me cashier’s checks for $3,500 each. That money would get them representation up to trial. If they wanted to go to trial, it’d be more.

It was late afternoon when I arrived at the police station. After some hassle with the front desk, I was awarded a badge and allowed to proceed to the elevator. The box took me up to the sixth floor, and Schmitty was waiting for me when the doors slid open.

“Afternoon.” He held out his hand. We shook, and then he led me back to his office.

Once he’d closed the door and we were sitting across his desk from each other, Schmitty said, “My DNA guy says you’ve been busy.”

I nodded. “But I’m still waiting for that big paycheck from the city.”

“Be waiting a long time on that one.” Schmitty leaned back. “Anything new?”

“Not really.” I thought about all the things that Emma and Nikolas had found out about Poles in the dark corners of the Internet, but figured that Schmitty already knew. I also decided that trying to explain how I’d obtained the information would be more trouble than it was worth.

I talked about the interviews and gave Schmitty a copy of the new spreadsheet that Emma and I had prepared. “We added a column about whether they’d be willing to talk to you.” I leaned across the desk and pointed at the column on the far right. “Figured you might want to send a detective out on a few, since the families seemed willing.”

Schmitty flipped through the sheets of paper, nodding. “This is good.”

“Mostly my paralegal,” I said, then added, “There was a mother and a kid who came in recently—Turner is the last name. Kid thinks he saw his brother get into a blue van.”

Schmitty’s eyebrows raised. “Want me to send somebody over?”

I shook my head. “Not yet,” I said. “It’s all secondhand for me. I want to interview him myself first. Don’t want to waste your time.”

Schmitty nodded. “Anything else?”

“Don’t think so.”

“OK.” Schmitty paused, looking uncomfortable. “We’re starting to feel some heat now. That group of protesters by the highway is growing, and I heard that they’re talking about shutting down the highway.”

“I can’t say I blame them.”

Schmitty stared at me, and we sat in silence for half a second too long. Then he opened the bottom drawer of his desk. “Guess we better deal with this now.” He reached down and pulled out a large brown accordion file.




I stood behind him and watched Schmitty push in his computer’s open disc drawer, loaded with the disc he’d pulled from the accordion file. With a couple of clicks, the player whirred to life, and a new window flashed up onto his screen. Images jerked, then started to flow.

It was the security video from Sammy’s school.

We watched for a moment, and then Schmitty forwarded the recording to a time that he had written down in his notes. “Here we go.” He clicked again, and the video played.

It was shot from a distance. The camera was likely mounted high on the wall in the lunchroom. At first I didn’t see her, but then I spotted Sammy sitting alone at a table on the far right. Alone, I thought. My beautiful, smart daughter eats lunch by herself.

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